Him
by BigDamnHeros
Summary: He liked to take his coat off and stand outside when it was cold, or raining, or both.


Disclaimer: Not mine, I just put them in confusing and angsty situations.

* * *

He liked to take his coat off when it was freezing, or raining, or both. He would stand there under the sky, unprotected, and lonely, but strangely beautiful in his solitude.

She never joined him. She stayed indoors and watched, because someone had to make sure that he didn't forget. About coming back inside, she means, because there is just too much he can't forget about.

"Harry!"

He turns, his hair plastered to his face, his eyes calm and sleepy. His clothes are soaked through, and he had never looked more alone, more untouchable, and more heartbreakingly wonderful than he did in that moment. Then he smiles at her- _for_ her, and she realizes that this is far better.

She smiles back, and crooks a finger, beckoning him out of the rain. He does as she asks, and once inside pulls her close. He smells like freshly cut grass, like rain, and the scent is thick and heady. She sighs contentedly and burrows her face in to the crook of his neck, not caring that she's getting herself wet. His hands ghost down her back tohold her waist gently, and they stand like that for a while.

* * *

"Do you know me?"

The question startles her; she doesn't know quite how to respond. Does she know him? She doesn't know what his favourite colour is. If you asked her whether or not she knew what he ate for breakfast, she might have to stop and wonder if he ate breakfast at all- even though he sat with her every morning- before responding no, she didn't.

She doesn't know much about his parents, not nearly as much as Ron and Hermione do. She doesn't know more than vague details about his life with the Dursleys'. She isn't even that sure of his middle name.

And yet…and yet…

She knows that he loves sitting by the fire while it snows, drinking something warm while she is curled up against him. She knows that when he gets angry, he rages and screams and lightning flashes in his eyes, and venom drips from every word he speaks.

She knows that he secretly loves being held, especially the way she does it; his back to her as she has one hand wrapped around him, and the other resting on his arm. She knows that he loves to kiss the spot on her neck where he can fell her pulse thrum erratically on his lips.

She knows he likes comfortable silences, and animated bantering; she knows he loves forever because he has never been taught otherwise,

She knows he loves her.

And as she looks in to his eyes –such bright, such warm, such beautiful eyes- and she knows, that he knows, that she knows.

And so she can't help but giggle before they kiss, and sigh as his lips trail down her jaw with feather-light brushes, before he places a firm kiss on that spot on her neck.

She feels her pulse race, and she feelshis grin ashe presses his lips against her skin.

* * *

It's all so very confusing. But she does understand, though there are times she wishes she _wasn't_ quite so understanding so that she could justifiably stand there and shout at him when he got like this.

Hermione called it one of 'Harry's moods', and whenever she hears that, she has to fight the urge to slap the daft woman.

Because this isn't a mood. A mood would imply emotions, and those are severely lacking in his countenance. His face is blank, and his eyes are deadened, and she wants to do anything, slap him, hold him, yell at him, kiss him, kill him, _anything_ to make him stop.

But she doesn't, because she understands that if he doesn't get like this for a while, if he doesn't wipe the slate clean and start again, then all that will be left of him would be his anger and his bitterness.

She understands.

So she lets him be polite and unfeeling, and she ignores him when he tries not to be. When he tries to place a hand on her shoulder, she shrugs him off- a pathetic act of rebellion, but just because she understands doesn't mean she has to like it.

So she lets him get in 'One of his moods', and cries herself to sleep at night because she wants to, and because he can't.

And then it's all worth it because one night he creeps in to her room and holds her close, kissing her tears away, adoring her with his eyes and his hands. It's worth it because she falls asleep to the feel of his arms around her, one hand stroking her hair, as he whispers in her ear. He says many things, "I'm sorry", and "Thank you", and "I love you". So many things that seem like sweet nothings, but coming from him are sweet everything's.

* * *

He's standing out in the rain again. The boy has to break this habit or else he'll die of pneumonia. The droplets cascade down, and beat a hollow, hypnotic tune on the roof, and she finds herself very sleepy. There is no time for this though; Harry needs to come inside.

"Harry!"

He doesn't turn around.

"Harry?"

This time he turns around, and the look on his face breaks her heart. He _knows_ what he has to do. He's going to go gallivanting off on some stupid quest to save the world from total destruction, and he doesn't want her there.

He wants her to stay safe.

What kind of woman would do this to herself? Let a man who is far to noble in to her heart? What kind of woman could possibly have low enough self-esteem to allow herself to be subjected to his violent 'moods'?

What kind of woman couldn't love him?

He wants her to stay safe. It's written on his face.

Stay safe.

Well bugger that.

With a defiant cry, she runs out into the rain. It pounds on her skull, her teeth are already chattering, and she's soaked before she even reaches him.

When she does, she stands tall; no need for words, he know what she means.

With a look of hopelessness on his face, he concedes. Yet all at once, she sees his shoulders lighten, and when he pulls her to him this time, his arms wrap tight around her, as if they'll never let go.

Well, alright then.

* * *

A/N: Please review. Sorry I've been gone for so long. 


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